the animal that never was
by live.die.be
Summary: And anyways, denial isn't a choice that you can make, now. Someone has to clean up the mess that your uncle made, and it's not going to be anyone else so it has to be you. a series of twenty six derek centric alphabet themed drabbles.
1. accept

author's note- character study seemed appealing, and drabble format is easier for alphabets, so. also i just have a lot of feeling about derek. expect the drabbles to jump around in the timeline a lot. (like, this is set just after laura's death, and the next one is set just after the hale fire. big time jumps, because i like being unpredictable.)

* * *

**accept**

Laura is dead. That's a truth, even though you wish it were a lie.

And truth always hurts the worst, you know that. You've known that ever since the first time you shifted in front of a friend in kindergarten, and he called you a monster and ran away.

It's a fact that's more bitter in your mouth than any number of lies could ever be. Laura is dead. You want to not believe it, but. It's a truth.

(Acceptance is a crucial stage of grief, isn't that what the books you've read about said?)

And anyways, denial isn't a choice that you can make, now. Someone has to clean up the mess that your uncle made, and it's not going to be anyone else so it has to be you.

Oh, and it _is_ a mess, now isn't it? A newly turned wolf and people who know who shouldn't, and you were never meant for this role. Laura was the natural leader, bossy and commanding right from when she was little. But Laura isn't here now, because your uncle Peter who used to bounce you both on his knees when you were still small enough killed her. (And that's another mess, literal and otherwise. You still need to bury her, because she at least deserves that dignity.)

Laura is dead, and that's a truth, and another truth is that you were never meant to be this person.

Pity, that. Would've worked better if Uncle Peter had killed you, instead. At least Laura would have known what to do. Of course, that's exactly why he didn't kill you.

And, oh, when did killing become so commonplace in your life that you can think so callously about your own death.

Oh, that's right. When you let Kate Argent into your life. First mistake, right there. (That's another truth.)

Your family is dead, which is your fault (lie, not truth, though you'll never let yourself believe that). Laura is dead, and that's your fault as well, because of Peter, and the fire, and everything (lie).

You _wish_ that denial was a choice you could make. (Truth.)

* * *

a/n-

title from a poem by rilke:

"This is the animal that never was.  
They didn't know, and loved him anyway:  
his bearing, his neck, the way he moved,  
the light in his quiet eyes.

True, he didn't exist. But because they loved him  
he became a real animal. They made a space for him.  
And in that clear, uncluttered space, he lifted his head  
and hardly needed to exist.

They fed him: not with grain, but ever  
with the chance that he could be."


	2. breathe

**breathe**

"It wasn't your fault," Laura says urgently, holding your face in her hands.

You bury clawed fingers into your hair, panting through teeth too large; you've shifted without even noticing, and you're scared so of course you did, that's the instinct, isn't it?

Laura says, "You didn't know what she was."

But you still smell ash in your nose though it's been a month since the fire, and you have nightmares every night, and you can hear Laura crying in the bathroom when she thinks that you're asleep. She _should_ blame you; _you_ blame you, and if she were to say that she hated you for killing your family you wouldn't blame her, because you hate yourself too.

You pull away from her and her touch, because you don't know how she can touch you when you're so toxic that you managed to get your entire family killed with your naivete. You pull away, and back yourself into a corner because you are scared and walls at your back are safer. (Kate liked to back you into corners and block any way for you to leave. Kate also liked to sneak up behind you, sliding a silky smooth hand over the back of your neck and _squeezing_.)

Your claws gouge into the drywall (damages, you think, you'll have to pay for the repairs), and you can hear a high-pitched frightened whine, and feel wetness on your cheeks. Everything is edged in red-black; too clear, and you've never hated yourself more than you do now.

"Derek," Laura says, from the other side of the room. She sounds wrecked; torn to pieces, and oh, that's right, her _whole family's dead_ and it's your fault, that's why, right? (_Yes, _that's why. And you can't even _keep it together_ enough to be helpful in anyway.)

You're suffocating, you can taste smoke and feel the acrid sting in your lungs; it's choking you, sticking in your throat and burning. (And, oh, burning, now that's a though that you can't have.) Your vision is spotting black, and you don't know why; you're scared, it's too much, and you keep seeing fire sparking behind your eyelids when you close your eyes.

You're there now, at the fire, with Laura holding you back from running inside the house to try and _save_ them, even though you know that it would just kill you too. (But would that have really been so bad? To have died all together as a family, a pack, instead of being the only two survivors, alone.)

"Derek," Laura says, soft, gentle. "Breathe."

You take one shaky, smoke-tinged breath, and ashes coat your tongue.


	3. create

**create**

* * *

There's a cheap, dingy apartment in the middle of town filled with Ikea furniture all done in light wood. You kind of despise the place, always was more drawn to the drama and elegance of dark mahogany and rich textiles. Or maybe that was just Laura's taste, and you just got so used to always picking things out that she'd chose that you've forgotten what you would if you had the chance. But it's just temporary, not a place to live forever.

The house in the woods is busier than it's been in years, full of voices and laughter, and you can't decide whether it mades you feel resentful or nostalgic or both. You're building it back up, your childhood home; a place with an equal amount of good memories and bad. Even the bad you don't want to forget, because forgeting the bad would mean forgetting the past, and the past can only ever be a guide of what not to do again.

_Everyone_ is helping, which makes it some sort of bizarre pack-bonding exercise that involves a lot more fighting over paint colors and which bedroom will belong to whom once it's finished than you expected this ever would. It's- strange, in a very good way, you think. It feels _good_ to see this place slowly being built back up, old, charred walls torn down to be replaced with new drywall.

You're not tearing it down to start fresh, because there are too many memories tied to the stucture for you to be able to do that without it- hurting. You're just, editting.

It's looking like an actual house again; a place where people live, with no more charred walls, and all the holes in the roof patched over.

There are _people_ here; your pack, and you wonder how you've managed to come from being entirely alone, to entirely _not_.

Scott's snarking about being made to carry all the heavy things, while Jackson's laughing at him, Lydia picking white paint out of his hair.

Stiles is literally covered in paint; an abhorent shade of fuchsia that you cannot remember picking out at the hardware store. Your living room has mysteriously turned the exact same color, and you suspect that Stiles was here all night, painting, so that by the time you got here the next morning it would be done and mostly dried. (Erica's got the same color under her nails, some of it splattered on the side of her neck, and you wish that they'd _never decided to be friends_, because they're the worst/best team ever, and they keep convincing Isaac that these schemes are _good ideas._)

There's something brittle and tentative blooming in your chest, and the air still smells like smoke, and this is still so new that you sometimes still expect to wake up one morning and be entirely alone again.

But you're surrounded by people who feel like _family_, and right now, for the first time in too long, you let yourself start to believe.


	4. devotion

**devotion**

* * *

The flooring in the apartment has always been something you've hated. You hate it even more right now, as you've been pacing back and forth across it for too long.

You pace back to her, where she's packing a suitcase full of clothing, to take with her when she leaves, and she will leave, now. It's inevitable. "You shouldn't go back to Beacon Hills," you say, softly. "This is a mistake."

"This is a mistake," you say again, louder this time, and stop, stand in front of her, and you wish that you could make her understand but know already that she never will.

"I really don't think you're the one to be talking about mistakes, Derek," Laura bites back, harsh and bitter.

You go still. This in itself is a testament of how much those words hurt you, like knives to your heart, that you can't even conjure up any emotion to be angry, and instead you're just hurt.

Laura's face crumples, and the tears start welling up and she whispers, "Derek, oh, god, I'm so sorry."

But you- you just can't take it anymore, and you run. Out of the room and out the apartment, into the streets of New York and you just keep running. Like a coward.

You come back eventually. You always do, it's the only place that even remotely resembles a home, and it only seems that way because Laura is there too. But Laura's not there when you get back, and the little apartment feels crowded with it's emptiness.

You make hot chocolate, something that you loved as child and still do now, a bit of childhood that you're hanging onto.

It's when you're settling into the sofa, that you hear the door open. You don't say anything, just sip your hot chocolate and think of people and places and things, about how much you don't want to be you.

Laura sits down next to you, leaning against your shoulder because touch is a sense you both miss. She says: "I promised myself I'd never blame you." Her voices breaks at the end of the sentence, and your heart breaks when you hear it.

It's terrible, and you're not sure why, since it is your fault anyways, and if you can own up to it then why can't she. Is it a matter of not wanting to hate the one person who will be with you forever, or is it something that is Laura at her core, too good of a person to place blame even where it should be.

She turns to you, says, "I love you, Der'."

You whisper, brokenly, "I love you too."


End file.
